


The Crimson

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Harvard University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because he's known the name all his life doesn't mean that Kurt knows what to expect when he finally arrives at Harvard Yard. Or who to expect. <b><a href="http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/53951087908/fic-the-crimson-pairing-kurt-blaine">Reblog on Tumblr!</a></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **[Klaine Hiatus Madness](http://klainehiatusmadness.tumblr.com/)** , day two: Those Who Know It Best. Heavily inspired by and drawing from my own experiences as a Harvard undergrad.
> 
> Accompanying picture:
> 
>  

It’s impossible to count the number of times Kurt has looked upon Johnston Gate over the years. Most of the time, the whorls and intricacies were only ever painted with pixels across his computer screen, but even as he steps through the gate for only the second time, he knows that he’s committed every detail to memory. It arches overhead, far out of his reach, a constant reminder of how his journey has only just begun.

Kurt leans out of the window of the passenger seat, fingers gripping the edge as the car makes its way down Massachusetts Avenue, and when they cross the threshold into Harvard Yard, his heart leaps into his throat.

“You excited, kid?” his dad asks, mouth curved in a grin even as his eyes are trained on the road.

“You have no idea.”

* * *

Of all the dormitories that Kurt could have been assigned to for his first year, Canaday _has_ to be the ugliest. The resident advisor, Reid, tries to convince students of the benefits as he helps them move furniture in — it’s the closest freshman dorm to their dining hall, it’s the only freshman dorm that can really claim to have its own courtyard, and the entryways are neatly arranged in the shape of a question mark — but all Kurt makes note of are the thickly painted walls of cinderblock that make up each room.

Reid explains those as well. Being built in the 1970s, Canaday Hall was designed to help keep students and staff safe from the riots that plagued the greater Boston area. It’s probably the most secure living space in all of Harvard College.

None of this changes the fact that it’s practically _impossible_ to get his _Wicked_ poster hung up in his room.

His one solace is the fact that his request for a single room was honored. It’s a cramped little space, and the window can’t even open enough to fit the width of his head, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about sharing a bunk bed like the quads or fight for closet space.

The entire entryway gathers in Reid’s suite that evening, and apparently Harvard freshmen don’t know the meaning of fashionably late, because Kurt swears that two dozen pairs of eyes immediately turn on him as he sticks his head through the door, three minutes past the hour. Kurt spends the first ten minutes of the meeting fighting off the flush in his cheeks as he settles in the corner of Reid’s couch, and only afterwards does he realize that he’s managed to miss the names of every single individual in the room.

“You’re Kurt, right?” Reid asks him once the students have sectioned off into smaller groups. “Remind me of which room you’re in again?”

“B23,” Kurt says, tongue feeling dry.

“Ah, that’s right, you’re in a single,” says Reid, grinning before he reaches out to clap Kurt heartily on the shoulder. “I’m sure that you’ll be glad for the peace and quiet you’ll have as opposed to everyone else in the entryway. Just make sure you show up for our weekly get-togethers so that you get to know your neighbors, and never hesitate to knock on my door if you need.”

Kurt nods, working on his smile until Reid turns to the next person before staring helplessly around at the crowd of students.

It’d be one thing, he thinks, if he felt like he had something concrete to offer to the group. But it’s _Harvard_. Isn’t everyone here amazing?

What if he’s the fluke?

* * *

The Student Activities Fair takes place exactly three days after class starts, just after everyone’s had a glimpse of their potential courses, but before they commit to them on paper. Kurt thanks his stars that his phone’s GPS system seems to work well in Cambridge, but finding his way to the remarkably distant Hilles seems to be only half the battle. Once there, it’s tables as far as the eye can see, some of them accompanied by huge, towering displays, and others with rows upon rows of glittering trophies that put the show choir circuit to shame.

An hour into the fair, Kurt’s arms are full of flyers, all of them advertising some combination of singing and theatre. The a cappella groups are the most enticing out of the set, each choir its own little family with plenty of personality and flair, highly competitive with the other groups on campus. Every single one of them, save for the female-only choirs, seems to be scrambling at the opportunity to bring a male countertenor into the group.

It makes him smile.

But before he can start making his way towards the long lines waiting for dinner, a handsome young man stops him, tall with a head full of curly blond hair.

Kurt doesn’t quite get his hopes up, but it’s a close thing.

“You seem like you’re the type of man who’d look good in a suit,” he greets.

Kurt arches a brow. “That’s how you’re going to start your pitch? Really?”

The man laughs then, hearty and full, before holding a hand out for Kurt to shake. “Sorry, that was very cheesy of me,” he says with an impish grin. “But you can’t say that it didn’t grab your attention.”

A student walks past the both of them, singing loudly and decked out in drag.

“Pretty sure _that_ guy has you beat,” Kurt remarks with a tilt of his head.

“Oh, believe me, there’s no one capable of beating the Hasty Pudding where theatricality is concerned,” the blond replies, tongue in cheek. “I’m Andrew.”

“I’m Kurt. It’s nice to meet you, even though you still haven’t given me your pitch.”

Andrew chuckles, sliding his hands into his pockets, the stance of his body easy and relaxed. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you, Kurt? Good thing, because that’s exactly the type of person I’m looking for. I don’t have flyers with me, because I’d rather save the trees, but I’m from the Harvard Speech and Parliamentary Debate Society, and we’re hoping to reel in some great new debaters this year.”

Kurt’s gaze skirts off to the side towards the large, tarnished silver cup resting on the team’s table. The last time he gave a speech in public was back in his senior year, trying to make a difference at McKinley. Sometimes he wonders how the rest of the year would have played out had he won the election.

Had people cared to listen to his speech at all.

“What if I’ve never debated before?” he asks, turning to look at Andrew again, fingers unconsciously folding the corners of the flyers in his arms.

“Not a problem. All you need is the desire to have your voice be heard.”

* * *

As it turns out, the pitch was a lot shinier than the trophy.

Being a new debater on the American parliamentary debate circuit is terrifying. Varsity debaters practically cackle when they’re paired against novices in the first round, and the sheer breadth of material that people know going into a round is astounding. Topics that Kurt hasn’t had the time to think about — immigration, the healthcare system, constitutional law.

But if he ever plans to follow in his father’s footsteps, he needs to know. And that’s what keeps him going.

* * *

Every weekend, they travel to a new campus, usually in the New England area. Being a debater means getting up at the crack of dawn, it means forgoing health in favor of bagels and cream cheese for breakfast, it means rejoicing on the rare occasion that there is actually a couch to sleep on.

(And being a freshman, there is _never_ actually a couch to sleep on.)

But it’s the evenings that Kurt finds strangest to navigate, when plastic cups are plenty and alcohol flows like water. Faces become slightly hazier no matter how hard Kurt tries to remember, and the music pounds in the distance, beat never quite matching the flash of the lights.

They’re hidden away in the darkest corner of the common room, awkwardly covered by the unwieldy bulk of his sleeping bag, legs tangled and far too much sweat on their skin. There are hands on Kurt’s body, strong and sturdy, fingers splayed over the width of his back and digging into muscle. Kisses, littered down the length of Kurt’s neck, only desperate once they pass the line easily covered by a starched collar.

“God,” Kurt breathes, his entire body tense and wound tight, _aching_. Head dizzy with the feeling of being wanted. _Needed_. He buries his hands into the boy’s hair, tugging until their faces are level, kissing a bruise into those soft lips.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” the boy rasps in the space between their teeth, shudders as his body bows towards Kurt, drawn together through some intangible magnetism.

The next morning, Kurt wears a constant flush on his cheeks, unsure whether it’s from the thrill or a brand of shame.

* * *

“Last night was amazing, but — can we just keep it between the two of us for now? If word got out, I, I just don’t think my family would understand, and I’m hoping to go into politics after I graduate. You know how it is, right?”

_No, not really._

* * *

Finding library space in the midst of midterms is almost like trying to win the lottery. About twice a day, Kurt catches sight of someone with a sleeping bag hooked over their shoulder, ready to make the trek to Lamont Library and prepared to bunk overnight if necessary. Between the inevitability of body odor and the quiet of his dorm, Kurt’s choice is clear, but there are only so many hours that he can spend in his room before itching to be anywhere else just for a change in scenery.

The Greenhouse Café is about a three minute walk away from Canaday Hall, and Kurt’s finally broken into the habit of donning sweatshirts and jeans when he’s in a pinch, which makes the trek easier to take on a whim.

It’s definitely draining his wallet, though.

Kurt gets about halfway through his sesame bubbletea before he takes his first mental break. His econ texts get shoved haphazardly to the side as he sprawls out in the booth, rolling his shoulders to release the tension. With his head buried in books, sometimes it’s easy to lose perspective of exactly why he’s at Harvard, slaving over concepts he may never apply directly in his career.

The thing about being at Harvard is that everyone looks like they know exactly what they’re doing. Everyone has something in their back pocket that they can bring out at the drop of a dime. Being able to recite _Romeo and Juliet_ word for word is as tired as claiming chess as a favorite pastime.

Not for the first time, he realizes that everyone else in the vicinity is grouped off. This time, mostly in pairs, and even without trying to look, Kurt catches sight of couples holding hands under the table.

Brow furrowed, he turns back to his textbook.

* * *

“So, I absolutely _loved_ your paper for expos. When I saw that I had been assigned to the one science-based course out of all the freshman topics, I was expecting to see paper after paper about the latest lab advancements or the moral debate surrounding abortion. Using fictional works for an analysis on the role of gender in society was _so_ inspired, though.”

“You might be giving me too much credit. Honestly, I just wanted to avoid reading about chromosomes for the millionth time.”

“I’m serious, Hummel. You basically took this assignment and produced a literary critique. Tell me again why you’re not in any of the freshman theater productions? You clearly know the source material well enough.”

“Not enough hours in a day, and whatever I have is completely owned by the debate team. I can’t make rehearsals when the weekend means driving fourteen hours to get to Cornell.”

“Ouch. You must be pretty dedicated to withstand that.”

“Have to keep thinking of my future, right?”

* * *

The World Universities Debating Championships are being held in Berlin this year. Traditionally, Harvard sends about three pairs of debaters to the tournament. Two, if funds are tight.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Kurt doesn’t make the cut. Andrew tries hardest to soften the blow, assuring Kurt that his time will come, maybe as soon as next year.

Kurt’s just so damned impatient.

* * *

“You know, I always knew you were a special kid, but even I never imagined that I’d be welcoming a Harvard man home for Christmas.”

Kurt groans, shoulders slumping as he carefully sets the crust of a cheesecake, happier than he wants to admit to be around a kitchen of his own again. “Dad, how many times do I have to ask you not to call me a Harvard man? You make it sound like it’s some type of title to throw around.” Kurt’s lips thin. “I’m just a student like every other freshman in the country.”

Chuckling, Burt shakes his head and leans against the kitchen counter, idly mixing the contents of a bowl and, to Kurt’s chagrin, completely missing some of the lumps of sugar. “Kurt, you don’t give yourself enough credit. Now, I know being on that campus must be challenging, maybe even a bit of a wake-up call that there are other kids out there almost as talented as you are,” Burt says. “But you worked your ass off to get in, and I know you’re still working your ass off to keep those grades up. Why shouldn’t you be proud of that?”

Even through the many doubts speckled through his mind, the ones that remain unsaid, Kurt smiles. “I _am_ pretty committed, I guess. Not everyone decides to stay for J-term.”

“If you change your mind and want to hang out with your old man, I think I can write out the terms for a one-month lease.”

“ _Dad_.”

“What? I’m a busy guy with a lotta work on my hands. I could use the extra storage space.”

With a pointed look, Kurt reaches out to grab the bowl from his father’s hands, waving for Burt to wash at the sink. Hands raised in surrender, Burt complies without complaint.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Kurt can see his dad looking his way.

“Just tell me one thing. You’re happy at that school, right?”

Kurt’s hand tightens slightly around the whisk.

“Yes, dad. I’m happy.”

* * *

As it turns out, January term seems to be an excuse for students to keep Cambridge housing without additional cost. When Kurt thinks about it in retrospect, it makes sense — what kind of class can really be taught over the course of a month? Between a crash course in Japanese woodblock prints and a discussion group about literature produced during the Cold War, Kurt finds himself hard-pressed to find a connection between what he’s learning and that blurred, nebulous future waiting for him in the distance.

Even though it’s kind of ridiculous to be looking halfway through freshman year, he finds himself lingering in law school web forums and avidly following the Facebook updates of the few seniors he knows.

Somehow, in three years, he’s supposed to magically find the path he’s destined for. It feels like an insurmountable task, and after he’s read through every comment in the dozen law school blogs he’s found on the network, all Kurt’s succeeded in doing is making the walls draw in more, leaving him with that much less air.

He needs to take a walk.

Only when he steps outside does Kurt realize how late it is, the sun having gone down, leaving the blanket of snow slightly luminous under street lights. Wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck, he walks briskly in the direction of Lamont Library, familiar with its layout after weeks of debate practice being held in its classrooms.

Shivering, Kurt settles down in front of the first open computer he reaches. Whoever was last at the table apparently failed to log out of their session, a few browser windows open on the desktop.

There’s one link that catches his eye: boredatlamont.com

_b@l: post your thoughts anonymously_

Out of good will, Kurt signs the last user out and logs onto the network with his own credentials. A few minutes later, he’s back on the Bored at Lamont page, breaking in a brand new account.

It’s another world entirely.

_Parties tonight? Anyone want to host and drinking and fun time?  
1 Reply • Agree • Disagree • Newsworthy • More • January 17, 2014 @ 5:42pm_

_hang or cuddle or  
1 Reply • Agree • Disagree • Newsworthy • More • January 17, 2014 @ 5:57pm_

Kurt almost snickers — it’s like the standard American college film come to life.

Still, he falls into it, browsing back through the pages and stumbling across a little more than the latest updates show. It’s not all requests for hook-ups; some people seem to be searching for study buddies willing to work with lower GPAs, and others turn there to help deal with depression that the university fails to properly address.

Most notably, the effect of anonymity is impossible to ignore.

_hottest gay guys? or closeted athletes?  
1 Reply • Agree • Disagree • Newsworthy • More • January 8, 2014 @ 2:14am_

Rubbing at his eyes, Kurt stops at the third page, unable to work through the sudden tangle of emotions caught in his chest. There are some freedoms that come from being among such a passionate group of young adults, where no one’s academic interests are ever ridiculed. There’s a comfort that comes from being in an environment where nothing is treated as impossible and ambition is supported rather than suppressed.

But what’s safe within the gates of Harvard isn’t necessarily so outside of it.

He’s about to pull away from the computer, ready to call it an evening, maybe stop to get some coffee before turning in. A notification on top of the tab holds Kurt back.

_**AllNighter** In Widener. Any M4M wanna suck each other off in the stacks?  
Reply • Agree • Disagree • Newsworthy • More • January 17, 2014 @ 6:32pm_

It takes about ten minutes to work up the nerve to reply.

Fuck it.

_What section?_

* * *

It’s a commonly known fact that Widener Library is the home of the largest university library system in the world. Above ground, it doesn’t look all that impressive as far as libraries are concerned — the giant stone columns loudly proclaim its presence as an academic building, but it’s no larger than many of the others on campus. Tourists tend to press their faces as close to the glass as possible, spying a grand staircase and ornate woodwork.

What they don’t always realize is that the vast majority of Widener’s collection lies underground, stretching underneath Tercentenary Theatre and going down several stories.

The stacks, as students call them, refer to row after row of bookshelves kept in the lower bowels of the library. Its resources are considered by many to be even more helpful than the internet — at least, for any student who wants unique sources for their research papers.

More notoriously, they are also home to one of three main bucket items to be fulfilled by undergraduates.

Sex in the stacks.

Getting to Widener takes about three minutes. Finding the agreed upon meeting place, almost ten times the amount.

Part of it is because Kurt has gone to painstaking lengths to ensure himself an easy out. As much as mind is supposed to be over matter, Kurt knows that he needs the best of physical distractions to keep his mind away from the fact that all of this isn’t what he does. Might not be him. In a place where everything Kurt does is carefully calculated, he needs this to be anything but.

He’s counting on chemistry to get that far.

Laden with a selection of books specifically plucked from a section on Colonial American fashion, Kurt quietly steps through the shelves, breathing shallowly and listening intently for any sign of another person in the near vicinity.

He almost jumps after rounding the seventeenth aisle.

* * *

Honestly, the first thing that Kurt notices is the shirt. Crimson, with the name of their school oh-so-subtly stretched across his chest in white block letters, it immediately brands the boy as a walking cliché. If it was attire made specifically for a group on campus, Kurt would understand — he kind of wishes HSPDS had a better looking logo — but between being on campus and standing in the stacks of Widener, the redundancy is enough to make Kurt’s head spin.

Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. This is just a one time encounter, after all.

“All nighter?” Kurt asks, hefting his books higher up on his hip as he stalls at the end of the aisle, gaze drifting down to the pages to keep him from looking too closely at the boy just yet, though he can already feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Yeah,” the boy responds, voice soft yet bright, with something like a quaver just underneath the word. “Big paper on Charlemagne.”

With that confirmation, Kurt glances up, this time past the Harvard name splashed across his chest.

It’s hard to decide where to look first, and yet the impression is immediate — _charming_. A dark, boyish thick of curls sneak down over his forehead, tamed with just enough product to look casual. Wide, expressive eyebrows drawn over bright hazel eyes, and dark lashes that are enough to draw envy out of stone. His lips are wide, mouth subconsciously drawn in a crooked line, favoring the same side as a slightly asymmetrical nose. And in his entirety, the boy is somehow shorter than Kurt expected, though his shoulders look sturdy enough, and the t-shirt hugs closely around his waist to show off just enough lean muscle to suggest athleticism.

Kurt’s gaze lingers by the boy’s hands, the look of them warm and strong.

“So what should I call you?”

Torn from his thoughts, Kurt gapes for a second before gathering himself, setting his books gently atop a narrow space on the nearest shelf. He hasn’t thought this far. “What, you don’t like Charlemagne?” Kurt asks, arching a brow and settling his hands on his hips.

For the first time, the boy smiles, revealing slight dimples that are sure to make a lasting mark in Kurt’s memory.

“It _does_ seem accurate,” the boy drawls, grinning as he takes a teasing step closer, then another, slightly too uncoordinated to be practiced. “There’s a certain regality that I’m already sensing about you. But, if you’ll pardon my French, ‘Charlemagne’ isn’t an easy name to shout in the middle of a good fuck.”

Kurt huffs a laugh, breathless and overwhelmed, though his feet take him a step closer to the boy in turn, hands brushing against the cool metal of the bookshelf for support. “I thought we were just meeting for blowjobs.”

“Well, if I can’t get a name out of you, we may sadly be limited to just that,” he muses with a shrug. “I don’t know about you, but I think that would be kind of disappointing.”

“How do we feel about Charles?”

The boy tilts his head. “I can work with that. Still regal, I see.”

Kurt lifts his chin slightly in silent agreement. “You put the idea in my head; now I’m never letting it go,” he says. “And what about you? Thinking of looming exams doesn’t really put me in the mood.”

That smile again.

“Call me Devon.”

* * *

Kurt doesn’t really know what to expect when the two of them are finally within an arm’s length of one another, close enough for him to feel the heat of Devon’s body across the couple of inches they stand apart. He tells himself repeatedly that they were only meeting to have oral sex, that it’s easiest to think of this as a mutual relieving of tension, and as such all that matters is dropping pants one pair after the other until they get off.

Crude, but to the point.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to decide which article of clothing comes down first. Possibly frustrated with the lingering distance, Devon is first to break their stalemate, turning on his heel to rest against the shelves of books while hooking his hands in Kurt’s belt loops to tug him along. It’s considerate, leaving Kurt with plenty of room to back off if needed — Kurt wonders, in the back of his mind, how many times Devon’s done this before to leave him such a natural.

But at the forefront of his thoughts is Devon’s physical presence, lashes delicately splayed over cheekbones, hips neatly bracketing his own, and a soft fragrance on his shirt, sweeter and more tart than most Kurt’s known. He catches those eyes staring at him again, and from this close, he sees flecks of color he’d missed before. Olive green among the amber.

Like a work of art he’s not meant to touch.

Catching a hint of a smile on Devon’s mouth — startlingly rosy in color — Kurt isn’t given any longer to think before they’re kissing, lips slotting neatly as Kurt lets out a quick exhale between touches. His blood thrums, mind hazy. He’s kissing a stranger, but it hardly feels that way when Devon’s quick to fill in the cracks, kiss deepened as the tension relaxes in Kurt’s shoulders. Distantly, Kurt realizes that Devon’s hips are pressed closer now, and he groans softly, rocking his own in return.

“You taste nice,” Devon murmurs when they catch a breath, his eyes lidded and arms shifting just enough to push Kurt’s pants down to where they threaten to drop.

“So do you,” Kurt breathes, eyes wide as he reaches back for Devon’s hands, tugging them away from Kurt’s jeans and pushing both forearms back to press against the bookcase. The control sends his blood racing, lips curving as he ducks down to kiss against the side of Devon’s neck, a slight shadow of scruff rough against his skin. “Everywhere, it seems.”

Devon’s hands flex where they’re pressed against metal, but they don’t fight against Kurt’s hold — if anything, Devon seems to sink into it, lips increasingly pliant as Kurt breaches them with a trace of his tongue. For a time, all that Kurt can hear in his ears is the pounding of his heart and the sharing of breath, and he chases after the inconstant hitches that litter the seconds, letting one hand skirt down to where it presses between Devon’s thighs.

Learning all the ways that the human body is a language all its own.

It doesn’t take long before Kurt’s hard, gasping as he ruts over Devon’s leg, using the shelf to brace their weight.

“ _God_ , yes,” hisses Devon when Kurt reaches around to grab his ass, pulling him close, bodies grinding and erections brushing.

They haven’t used each other’s names since the first contact, carefully stepping around one another, around the areas where they’d be forced to tell lies for the sake of encapsulating the moment and the moment alone. Kurt bites down on his lower lip as he finally releases Devon’s hands, gaze lingering on the red that rises to the surface of the skin where pressure is released, the burning sense of pride that flares bright in his chest. He’s gentle as he continues, pursing his lips for peck after peck from Devon, who leans forward, bolder as Kurt’s hands start to unfasten the button of Devon’s jeans.

“Tell me how much you want this,” murmurs Kurt.

“ _Please_. I — I want it so much. Want you.”

His chest tightens as though under a vice, carefully sidestepping the delicate balance of the moment, knowing how there’s a probable breaking point that they can’t cross. Devon might be like so many of the others Kurt’s met, both on campus and in the greater area, those who yearn to be themselves in a world where it’s society that dictates everything.

It’s never been his place to deny them this. Privacy.

But god, he wants as well, wants this beautiful man in his hands, the one who gasps and rocks as Kurt wraps a hand around his cock, carefully stroking from base to tip. Wants to forget about the future and forego consequences in favor of the sweet cries that fall from Devon’s lips once Kurt’s dropped to his knees, lips wrapping wetly around the head, sounds quiet in the contained corridors of the library.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Devon breathes, sounding reverent as his hands fumble near Kurt’s hair, brushing past without grabbing hold, settling instead on the curve of Kurt’s shoulders.

Forcefully, Kurt reaches out for both, then pushes them up to thread through the strands of his hair. If words aren’t allowed them, then at least he’ll be able to step out of the library tonight looking thoroughly fucked, and no one can take that from him. Or this.

Devon complies, tugging in time with the bob of Kurt’s head, one hand briefly pulling away to press by the corner of Kurt’s mouth.

He feels the approach of the cliff before he hears it, muscles alive and tensing under his fingertips as Devon tugs sharply in warning, the hitches of his breath closer, almost a stuttering beat loud in Kurt’s ears and felt under the press of his hands.

“Need to come,” Devon gasps, his voice sweet and softly overwhelmed. Kurt pulls off, eagerly stroking Devon to completion with his free hand driving down on his own lap, the heel of his palm driving friction through the denim.

“You can,” he says, throat hoarse. “Come for me.”

It’s all the permission Devon needs, eyes screwed tightly shut, lips flushed and parted as he streaks over Kurt’s hand and arm, shuddering through each wave as his hands clamp down on Kurt’s shoulders for support. Kurt can’t tear his eyes away, the both of them bathed in light, exposing every last vulnerability, difficult as it still is to read between the lines.

All he knows is that Devon looks beautiful, and in that moment, the world is just them.

He wishes time could stop. Right then and there.

* * *

They kiss for minutes afterwards, between disbelieving laughter and soft groans of protest, between heated skin and spines of books digging against their bodies. Devon’s shirt is unceremoniously pooled on the floor, the unwilling recipient of their fumbling attempts to clean up.

“I have my coat,” Devon had insisted when Kurt protested. “And it’s not like I can’t buy another dozen of these at the Coop if things don’t come out in the wash.”

There’s a clock ticking in the distance, its beat contrasting with the softer, steady beat of Devon’s heart. Kurt can’t keep his hands from roaming, smoothing over skin, pressing rushed kisses near the shell of Devon’s ear.

“Library closes in fifteen,” Kurt says after a glance at the clock.

“Plenty of time,” Devon replies.

* * *

“So… can I ask which dorm you live in? The least I can do is offer you company on the walk of shame.”

In spite of how hard they try, their laughter echoes down the empty hall, resonant against the highest walls of Widener. Silencing the moment they step out into the wintry air.

“I’m in Canaday Hall. Entryway B.”

A beat.

“Wow. The only thing farther would be Pennypacker. I’m, uh, in the opposite direction. Wigglesworth.”

Keep smiling.

“Guess that means it’s wiser for us to part here.”

There are only so many steps leading up to Widener.

“Yeah.”

* * *

It’s not possible to be disappointed when hopes weren’t raised in the first place.

Right?

* * *

Kurt curses Devon’s question in the coming days. The layout of Harvard Yard is branded into his mind now, and the paths he takes more winding. Every step is justified — the plows have cleared the snow here more efficiently, he’s less liable to take a tumble. Grays Hall is still the closest place for him to go for his weekly discussion group for econ class.

Doesn’t matter that it’s next to Wigglesworth. That’s just coincidence. Happenstance.

The fact that he never spots Devon along the way — maybe that’s not.

* * *

He still makes the regular trek over to the Greenhouse Café, always passing through the gates leading out of Harvard Yard, the law school visible in the distance. Gradually, people return from the holidays, and everything gets buried under the haze of noise, of campus chatter, of the living and breathing entity that the campus is.

It’s familiar, almost ordinary, and that’s what makes Harvard home.

There are people standing outside of the Science Center again, the new year offering a turning of the page, new opportunities for people to find themselves in the four short years that they have.

Kurt makes sure to accept every single flyer, even those he never would have given a second thought before. Maybe all it takes is one moment to break the preconceptions.

A sharp breeze passes, and Kurt hugs his books closer to his chest, ducking his face down to avoid the brunt of the wind.

“The Hasty Pudding’s meeting tonight for the first time this semester, open to all potential compers. You should consider coming; it’ll be lots of fun.”

He glances up, freezing in place.

The world around them doesn’t stop moving. This campus never sleeps, never pauses, and honestly, that’s what Kurt loves most about this school. Life always goes on.

“When and where?” Kurt asks, unable to suppress a smile.

“Seven o’clock at the Hasty Pudding Theatre. It’s right on Holyoke Street, you can’t miss it.”

“Assume that I’m terrible with directions. Is there any way I can convince you to meet by Annenberg and make the trip together? Grab dinner beforehand?”

But even through the noise and shuffling movement, his laughter rings clear, achingly familiar.

“That sounds great, actually. I’m Blaine.”

“…Kurt.”


End file.
